The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

He recognizes the truth of the answer, even though he doesn’t like it. His annoyed look reflects his distrust of a universe that would throw surprises at him during an election year.

He says, “Millwood is good.”

“He is that.”

“You’re better.”

With Bobby, sincerity is always a mystery. I appreciate the words in any event. He goes on.

“You’re better than him and you can beat him. Don’t you walk into that courtroom thinking that Bernard Barton has the better lawyer. He does not. I know Millwood was your mentor and you look up to him. I do not care. You’re better. When I became D.A., I pushed Millwood out because I wanted you to have his job. It was time. You’re my man. Don’t psych yourself out or any other nonsense like that. You got this. Got it?”

I wasn’t expecting a pep talk. His description of Millwood’s departure is a new revelation, and I hope Jack doesn’t secretly blame me. But Bobby’s words do inspire, even if they are just for show. I felt good about squaring off against Millwood following the plea conference. Now I feel even better. I’ll give Bobby credit. Those leadership books are paying off.

He asks again, “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now go get me a guilty verdict.”

***

Ella enters my office without knocking, wearing a scowl north of annoyance but south of rage—barely. She slams a legal pad onto a side table before throwing her body into a chair. The weirdness still existing between us leads me to hold my tongue. I’ll know the problem soon enough.

“Our star witness is being a diva.”

“How so?”

“Uncooperative. Unpleasant. Won’t answer any questions. Called me a black bitch. Demanded you conduct her examination at trial. Real peach of a gal you got there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can choke on all your sorrys.”

She means it. I hoped Lara would behave during their final witness prep this morning. Their teamwork to this point has held, resting on an uneasy alliance between two adversaries united in pursuit of a common enemy. But Lara’s recent antics had me worried. Now I have two angry women on my hands. A new thought emerges.

“Should we not call her to the stand?”

The fewer the variables at trial, the better. Right now, Lara is a variable. I once had pegged her as a supernova of a witness—the grieving sister pulling at the emotional heartstrings of the jury, the avenging angel pointing the finger straight at the defendant, the living embodiment of the victim in the courtroom right down to the last freckle. But the defining characteristic of a supernova is that it explodes.

Ella chews on the merits of the Lara gambit for some time. One frustrated shake of the head later, she concludes, “I think we need her.”

I shake my own head in response.

“We have the gun. The 911 call. The money. Motive because of Brice and the gambling. The video of Barton leaving Monica Haywood’s apartment before the murder. Haywood’s lie about his alibi. We have enough.”

“No. This isn’t some open-and-shut case where everything will go by the book. We need to nail everything down backwards and forwards. We can’t give Jack Millwood even a crack or he will exploit it. Lara Landrum is a dream witness. You always tell me that trials aren’t just about facts but also about emotions. She’s the heartbeat of our case and can lead the jury to hate Barton. We need her. She has been fantastic in preparing for her testimony until today. We just need to knock her off her high horse a little bit and get her back on track. We also need her to get the photo of Sara Barton’s bruised back into evidence. Lara took that picture.”

I sigh. Something else is at play here. Ella’s big moment of the trial is Lara’s direct examination. The whole country will be watching. Take that away, and Ella becomes a bit player. The glory would be all mine. Knowing what she knows about me, that would be one bitter pill too many.

“I’ll have to talk to her. Alone.”

Ella’s skeptical eyes search my soul, wondering if she can trust me. She can’t, and she knows it. She gives me a reluctant nod anyway, realizing that I’m a necessary means to an end. She wants to win the Barton trial as much as I do. That’s one of the reasons we’ve always made such a good team.

I ask, “Is she still here?”

“I don’t think so. She stormed out and didn’t look back.”

“Expect that your preparation of the witness will resume at three this afternoon. Let me know how it goes. If she doesn’t show, we’ll figure it out from there.”

“What are you going to say to her?”

I offer a long look and ask, “Do you really want to know?”

“Never mind.”

***

Ella leaves, and I retrieve the burner phone from its hiding place. Burner phones are tools of the criminals this office prosecutes. And yet here I sit—a man with two phones leading a double life, trying unsuccessfully to keep the two lives from colliding into each other.

I turn the device on and watch it reverberate with spastic convulsions on my desk as a long series of new messages download in machine gun style. The chain of text messages runs the gamut. Expletives. Threats. Distress. Demands. Name-calling. Urgency. Ultimatums. Even another suggestion of suicide.

I text her back and instruct her to meet me in the condo immediately. I turn the phone back off, not even waiting for a response. I consider chucking it out the window, but put it back in its secret spot instead. My legs don’t want to move, but I will them to stand up. I drag myself slowly along the corridor, using prodding steps to delay the moment of reckoning—just like a condemned man walking to his own execution.

I am so tired, and I have no one to blame but myself.

***

She is already there, bracing for a fight. The drive over fortified my nerve. The plan is simple.